


Kinn

by GreenBird



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Romance, Eventual porn I promise, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Rating will go up later, Slow Burn, Soulmates, no beta we die like renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24130858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenBird/pseuds/GreenBird
Summary: “Julian grew up to stories of the Kinn, each tale more romantic and tragic than the next, all wound together with the plans of the gods and the fickle nature of fate. He adored those stories. The very concept was poetry: when your soul was ready, a kinn appeared to guide you to your kinnmate; your missing piece, your destined love. The Kinn were animal familiars, the very mirror of your love, wrought with magic. Being approached by your kinn was a blessing and a curse. It was the ultimate romance and adventure.Julian never wanted anything more.”An AU where beings of magic manifest to both Jaskier and Geralt, enrich their lives, and try to bring them together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 50
Kudos: 226





	1. A Guardian, a Guide

**Author's Note:**

> I write Geralt as “Witcher 3 Geralt”. He is the superior Geralt and I will not hear anything against him. Basically that just means he talks more.
> 
> This story is entirely inspired by the cute fan art by CraftGamerzz on tumblr. From there I just made up a bunch of lore and went awol. I used the daemon tag because it’s kinda like that but not really. Close. A mix between some soul mark/soul bond trope and the daemon idea. Soul guides? Idek. No beta let me know if I fucked something up, plz.

Julian grew up to stories of the Kinn, each tale more romantic and tragic as the next, all wound together with the plans of the gods and the fickle nature of fate. He adored those stories. The very concept of the Kinn was poetry: when your soul was ready, a kinn appeared to guide you to your kinnmate; your missing piece, your destined love. The Kinn were animal familiars, the very mirror of your love, wrought with magic. Being approached by your kinn was a blessing and a curse. It was the ultimate romance and adventure.

Julian never wanted anything more. It was beyond poetry.

The kinn in the stories came in two main flavors: majestic and comical. There was the popular epic about a young woman searching the continent with her kinn, a red eagle. She met many a man who adored her, but none were the kinn’s mirror. None were as beautiful and fierce. She wept and despaired, and her kinn took pity, and led her to an island in Skellige. The eagle flew to the docks and landed upon the shoulder of another maiden, hair the color of flames. 

Then, there was the bawdy song of a man approached by a homely kinn: a warty toad. He despaired and complained of his destiny to be with a toady woman to match. Julian liked the humor in that one, because when the man finds her, his own manifestation is that of a foul worm. 

_“What a jest to find a worm for your soul,_

_when the lights go out, she’ll swallow him whole!”_

His mother discouraged his waxing on about soulmates and fate and the Kinn. In reality, very few people ever met their kinn, and even fewer yet their kinnmate. Some people wandered forever, searching for their match with only their kinn as company. Others rejected their kinnmate, refusing to accept what the kinn gave them, and the most tragic had their kinn come too late: the creature revealing itself the day after the person’s wedding.

“You cannot spend your life praying for a kinn to find you. A kinn can lead you to love, or can lead you to despair. Love is wonderful, Julian, but one doesn’t need a soulmate to have it.”

He knew, of course, she was saying that to soften the eventual blow of his own arranged marriage. Still, he adored the romance of it, and often fell on the story of the Kinn and their ways for his inspiration. Oxenfurt was far enough from his estate that he was able to indulge in his starry-eyed romantics without the shadow of the inevitable creeping on him. 

However, two years into his education, he reached his adulthood. Time had run short, and his family began to make their inquiries. Would he leave Oxenfurt soon? Had he made any high-blooded connections in University? Did he like blondes or brunettes, because the neighboring Baron had comely daughters in various shades.

“Fuck familial duty,” Julian muttered, piss-drunk and annoyed, wandering the streets after the tavern closed. The last letter from his mother had been strongly worded, and he’d left for a pint as soon as he finished reading it. “She has my brothers to bother. Why not ignore me?” Surely they could spare him his fate: he had enough siblings to pass titles to. “If I had half a spine I would abandon the whole lot of them. Run off into the wilds and make my own life.”

It had rained recently, and Julian hopped foul puddles, tipping and wobbling as he attempted to keep himself dry. His personal misery and intoxication were at fault for his failure to notice the men tailing him. Of course it was foolish to be a posh young noble, drunk and alone at night, but Julian was not known for his careful decisions. 

He became blatantly aware of them when one shouldered him hard into the waiting maw of a side alley, sending Julian flailing into a stack of rotting crates and then hard against the flagstones. There was an immediate burst of pain in his elbow and back, and he sprawled on the wet stone, dazed.

“Alright, lad. Give us the coin in your purse. Else you’ll get a more than some bruises.”

“You couldn’t just tap me on the shoulder?” Julian groaned from his position, glaring up at the three men who circled him. They were the regular lot of roughians - most likely sailors passing through looking for some extra coin to pinch from wealthy students.

Julian sat up, wincing from the soreness throbbing through his back. Thankfully, being drunk made his fall near boneless, and nothing was broken. The small silk satchel of his coin purse was worth more than the one crown left inside it, and he made a show of dumping his last coin into the palm of his hand. 

“There you are!” He drunkenly crowed, flashing the coin at them in the low light. “The contents of my purse, for three rude whoresons who can’t just ask a man for a crown, but have to shove him on his ass, first.” And with that, he threw the coin out onto the main street, enjoying the tinny clatter of it ricocheting of the brickwork. “Fetch!”

Predictably, one of the men went for it and the other two, alarmed at Julian’s brazenness, just stared at him in shock.

“You little fucking shit,” one man said, a small amount of awe in his voice, “did you really just do that?”

Julian shrugged, and enjoyed one peaceful moment of silence before the man lifted him off the ground and slammed him against the wall of the alleyway. 

“I should knock your teeth out and check for gold fillings, boy.” The man sneered into Julian’s face. 

“Futile, I have impeccable oral hygiene,” Julian hiccuped in return. He really shouldn’t have gotten so thoroughly sloshed. He had a hard enough time holding his tongue when sober.

The man holding him looked furious, and the other to his side was already cracking his knuckles in anticipation. The scad who had run after the coin hadn’t returned yet. Julian hoped it had rolled into some manure.

“Let’s ugly up that face a little, huh?” His attacker dropped hold of his collar, moving to swing on him. The man paused for intimidation, expecting his soft noble of a victim to flinch. Julian didn’t: he wasn’t even looking at him.

Something had slunk around the corner, prowling in towards them. Its eyes flashed in the dark, and as it came into the lamplight, its body shone like a ghost. It was a beast, massive and out of place, bigger and more wild than a dog. Julian was transfixed by it.

Apparently his stunned expression made his assailants turn to look as well. The quiet was broken as the beast snarled, sharp, white teeth drawn like small daggers, hackles raised. The men gasped and drew back as the creature advanced, unafraid and enraged.

“What the hell is a wolf doing here?”

That’s not quite right, Julian thought, staring at the gorgeous creature. It was unlike any wolf he had seen sulking about the manor growing up. It was huge, to his hip in height, with a glorious white pelt. He’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“Let’s get out of here,” one of the men whimpered, “I don’t have my knife on me. I’m not about to get mauled.”

The other man, apparently as stubborn as he was unable to enjoy any of Julian’s jests, made to shoo the beast, flapping his arms at it and shouting. The wolf snapped its teeth at him, its growl low and resonant. Julian felt it in his bones.

“Let the wolf fucking eat the brat, let’s go!” 

“Fuck it,” the man said, and shoved Julian rather unclimactically into the wall as he ran. The wolf lunged as he went past, teeth snapping behind him, and the man squealed in terror as he rounded the corner. Julian could not hold in his caw of laughter.

“My gods, how funny,” he giggled, sliding down the wall to sit on the dank ground. The wolf was glaring after the fleeing men, huffing in irritation. After a few seconds, it turned to look at him.

“Hello, you beautiful thing,” Julian crooned, bringing his hand up to it. He just couldn’t bring himself to be afraid. He couldn’t explain it, but he just knew: this wolf would not harm him.

The creature seemed to grumble low in its throat, and came to him, nose touching his fingers in greeting. Up close, it was even more astonishing. Its eyes were a beautiful amber, vivid and emotive. It looked just as curious as Julian was.

“Thank you for saving me. You’re very ferocious,” he smiled, drunkly petting alongside the animal’s neck. The wolf huffed again, and nosed under his arm, helping Julian to his unsteady feet. The fur under his hands felt unlike any animal he had ever touched.

“Are you magic?” Julian asked as the wolf led him down the street, its strong body supporting his pained wobble. Julian’s inebriated adoration was beginning to sharpen into reality. He already knew the truth, he had known the moment he had seen the beast manifest before him. He’d known with every fiber of his being, just how all the stories had said.

He would later blame the fact he burst into happy tears on the alcohol, and frankly, he was thankful no one was witnessing this. 

“I can’t believe you came for me!” He sobbed, a drunken wreck of smiles and tears. “I’ve been thinking about you my whole life, and here you are- oh gods I’m so happy to meet you!”

This time, Julian didn’t care about the puddle he landed in as he knelt down in the street, throwing his arms around the wolf. His kinn grumbled as if annoyed by his hysterics, but Julian could see, through his tear-blurred eyes, the slow wag of a tail.

* * *

Naturally, Julian was completely unable to hide the fact that he had a kinn for more than twelve hours. His kinn was, in fact, rather enormous. A large, shockingly white wolf was not an easy animal to overlook. His landlady shrieked when she spotted them sneaking down the next morning. He’d told her it wasn’t a wild creature, but in fact a kinn. Julian had always been gifted with words, and although she wasn’t thoroughly convinced by the time he’d waxed poetic to her, she was also not throwing him out for boarding an animal.

Walking around Oxenfurt in broad daylight was an experience. With Wolf, (which was what he was calling her because he was sloshed out of his mind, and now she was answering to it) Julian didn’t need to worry about the crowds before him. He had space to move. No pickpockets or pushy merchants approached with Wolf slinking alongside him. 

He was, however, very much the center of attention. Julian would normally blame such looks on his peacock green doublet and stylish leggings, because he did indeed look quite fetching, but he knew that wasn’t the case now. He wasn’t an idiot; although there were certainly a handful of people in Oxenfurt with kinn of their own, his was a bit obvious. 

Kinn came as birds and cats, snakes and toads, dogs and mice and rabbits and even as goats. Larger kinn were even more rare, and wild ones were nearly myth. Julian felt like he was walking alongside a lion.

Or, perhaps, lioness. When he had sobered up that morning, laying on the rug with a blanket mysteriously pulled over him, he’d been able to get a look at his kinn in a better light. It was a she-wolf, just as beautiful as his drunken memory served him. She was strong and graceful, with a long sweep of a tail and large, daunting paws. He also saw that she had scarring along her muzzle and flanks: a sign of a hardened life in the wild. 

Wolf appeared to not exactly trust others, sharp eyes suspicious of the people who watched them walk down the way. Her fur brushed on Julian’s legs at every stride, close and protective, if not slightly discomforted, of the crush of people about.

Julian let his hand drift down to pet the curve of her shoulder, reassuring. He had no idea where his kinn had come from, but it was certainly an animal that did not prefer the bustle of the city, unlike himself. She would calm in as their bond grew, or at least he hoped so. The only thing he knew about the bonds between kinn and their person was told in song and story. He had met only a few people with kinn, and it was considered rude to discuss the matter if you were not close friends.

There was one person he knew that may be able to appreciate and assist in his newfound lifestyle, and he knocked hurriedly when he reached her door.

Lysah was a middle-aged troubadour currently residing in Oxenfurt after an injury on the road. She’d nearly snapped her foot in two under a wagon wheel and had been teaching music to the underclassmen as she recovered. The woman was exceptional with the lute and lyre, and she had become a good friend. Lysah was one of the only people Julian could think about who was as in love with the romance and poetry of the Kinn as himself. She also had no connection with his family, so telling her had few consequences.

Julian barely even waited for her to open the door.

“It’s happened,” he announced, pushing the door further and forcing Lysah to step back.

“Jaskier!” She said, smiling at him. He loved that she used his stage name instead of his family name. Everyone else had been slow in adopting it: station was everything to the young nobles he schooled with. “Hello. What has…” Lysah made to shut the door behind him and stopped as his kinn shoved in after. She gasped at the sight. “Gods! Is that a dog?”

Julian was bouncing in excitement, and the beast slid next to him, golden eyes warily watching as the woman shut the door. “Lysah,” Julian exclaimed, “she’s not a dog. She’s a kinn.”

The troubadour looked as though someone had struck her in the head. Her gaze darted between the two of them, eyes growing wider by the second.

“Are you serious?” She whispered, hand flying to her mouth in shock. 

“She is!” Julian stroked Wolf’s head briefly and beamed at Lysah. He was still bouncing in place. “ I know she is. She’s my kinn. She saved me from some robbers last night and hasn’t left my side since. Lysah, look at her! Why would there be a tamed wolf running around in Oxenfurt? Why would it bother to befriend me?”

Lysah sunk to her knees to get a closer look, still an arm’s reach away from the intimidating kinn. “I just can’t believe… Jaskier, a wolf? You?”

“Isn’t she perfect?”

“She’s gorgeous.” Lysah sighed, entranced. “Just look at her, gods, she’s stunning.” Wolf blinked at Lysah and looked away. A huff escaped her and Julian laughed at the small sign of embarrassment.

Lysah stood and straightened her skirts. The look on her face told Julian she was already composing in her head, writing out some romantic ballad. He couldn’t blame her; this was unreal.

“What sort of person is her Mirror?” She asked, her slender musician’s fingers tapping on her chin. A grin plumped her cheeks. “You think your kinnmate is some insane witch of the woods? A rugged huntsman? A lonely wanderer?”

Truly, he had been so enamored with Wolf herself that he barely had time to think of his kinnmate. His mind reeled with the possibilities. “Someone strong and mysterious!” He said, clapping his hands in excitement. “Oh, Lysah, I can hear the epic tale already! The poems I could write! The songs I could sing! Love, fate, adventure!”

Lysah pursed her lips. “A life of adventure, little viscount? Will that all be happening in your manor?”

Julian shook his head. He’d already decided on this. He knew as soon as he‘d met those beautiful yellow eyes. “This is a sign, Lysah. I’m going to do it: I am going to leave Oxenfurt. I am going to leave Lettenhove.”

The older woman smiled. She looked relieved to hear it. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t see that coming. You’ve interrogated me plenty about my life on the road, performing with the troupe through Redania. No one is that interested unless they want to try it.”

He couldn’t stay still. This change was monumental. Julian felt like his ears were buzzing, like all of his hair was on end. He wasn’t scared, he was thrilled. Beside him,Wolf was calm and steady.

“We’ll travel the continent,” he said. “I’ll sing to earn money, I’ll write and perform and collaborate- oh I am going to make such wonderful art. I’m going to meet so many people. Sing and play and tell stories, all with Wolf there to guide me.” His kinn wagged once in encouragement, intrigued by his overflowing excitement. Her emotions were there, but subdued. Subtle and quiet. It was grounding. It made him feel bold. He beamed at her, adoringly.“Just maybe we will find your mirror along the way, dear Wolf.”

“Jaskier,” Lysah said, bringing his attention back to her, “I don’t want to put a dampener on this epic, but your parents won’t be giving up on Julian Pankratz that easily. They’ll send someone after him eventually.”

She was separating them, Julian and Jaskier. One was a viscount with familial duties, the other was an adventurer and poet. Her point was made: one had to outlast the other.

“I’ll just tell them not to expect me for a few years,” he said, already writing the letter to his mother in his head. “If I leave Oxenfurt and travel as a vagrant bard, it's an utter disgrace to the family. Father won’t pay coin to have me back.” Strangely, the prospect his father wouldn’t even bother with a ransom for his son was a reassuring fact.

Lysah patted a hand on his cheek. “Jaskier it is, then. A name change does wonders, darling.” The troubadour spun away, going to a chest across the room, talking as she went. “I think I still have my old pack and a bedroll I used while traveling the circuit.” She half dove into the open chest, digging for the items. “You can have them.”

Jaskier felt a bloom of warmth in his chest. She really was a remarkable person. A true teacher. “Lysah, really?”

She stood again, hair wild and smile wide, the promised pack and bedroll in her arms. “It’s the responsibility of your teacher, friend and fellow artist.” She fussed with the pack, untangling its straps, checked to see if the ties were tight on the roll. “What kind of romantic would I be to not help you on your way? Plus, you’re going to be paying me back.”

Jaskier laughed. “Am I, now.”

“Yes.” Lysah handed him the kit, only slightly musty from misuse. It was perfect. She tapped him lightly on the chest with her forefinger. “I expect letters, darling. I expect to hear your songs on the tongues of others. I expect greatness, and romance and success. That is how you will pay me.”

Jaskier was never more excited to begin working on a debt.

* * *

It was surprising how easy it was to leave. He had thought that discarding and storing nearly all of his possessions would be stressful, that telling his professors and friends he was off into the world would be heartbreaking. He expected that writing to his mother of his venture would make him nervous. He thought he would be more worried, have more doubts.

He just didn’t.

Before Wolf came to him, he had considered traveling the continent as a bard and poet as a bit of an insane prospect. He would dream about it at night, in his comfortable boarding room. He would pour over maps and mark sites to see, towns to visit. It was all very liquid and translucent.

Wolf made it solid, made it bold. He could travel the roads he traced, lute across his chest, strumming and singing in a place unknown. He could face uncertainty without worry. It wasn’t that he was a coward, far from it. His own mother said he needed a lesson in fear, what with the way he ran his mouth and his penchant for drama in the face of disaster. He was a brave sort of fool, but Wolf made it better. She was an anchor. She reinforced his spine.

He felt it the first night he needed to camp alone. He had hunted and taken small adventures with his brothers and father when young, but camping with an entourage and camping by yourself are very different things. The fire took an embarrassingly long time to light, and he had failed to kill a grouse with his sorry excuse for a slingshot. Wolf wandered off, gone into the dark, and returned with not one, but two rabbits in her mouth. 

Jaskier cooed and praised her, splitting the catch between them. After dinner, when sleep crept on him, she laid to his back, huge and soft and comforting. He knew that he was safe. She was his kinn, his partner. She would care for and protect him, and he would do everything he could to adore her and honor her mission. 

The Kinn were magic. They were gifts from the gods. They were a spell, a curse. They were a part of your soulmate, driven to bring you to the one who waited for you, to guide you to your destiny.

Jaskier was keen to follow.


	2. Judgement of Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes home with a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my characterizations of the boys is based on the games. I fell in love with all three of them getting wasted, cross-dressing, and drunk dialing The Lodge. Beautiful.

When Geralt came in for the winter at Kaer Morhen, Vesimir could see right away that something was bothering the witcher. He led Roach to the stable hastily, and didn’t bother to unhook his packs before he turned to his teacher, face pinched in annoyance.

“I have to ask you something,” Geralt said.

“Well, hello to you, too.” Vesemir crossed his arms, eyeing up the younger witcher for any injuries or curses. He looked whole and hale, just irritated. “What’s so urgent you can’t even relieve Roach of all that baggage before you interrogate me?”

Geralt had the decency to look a little ashamed, and moved back to unburden his horse. The ride to Kaer Morhen was a strenuous one, and they had brought extra supplies for wintering. Vesemir smiled and helped, while his protege continued.

“I need some lore information on witchers, and you’re the one to ask. I have a problem.”

Vesemir shouldered the saddlebags, grunting under the weight. His two centuries were showing if he couldn’t even carry a ten stone bag without complaint. “What’s the problem? You look to be in good health. Some complications with mutagens?”

Geralt hung Roach’s saddle and tack, then grabbed the rest of the supplies and gear. A frown was evident on his face. “Not quite,” he muttered, “it’s just, I seem to have picked up something this past spring and there’s no shaking it.”

“Picked up something?” Now that was a shock. No witcher had ever picked up a natural illness or plague. If Geralt had a lingering ailment, it had to be magic, and strong magic at that.

Vesemir was about to ask him to clarify, his mind already spinning with all the ways he could test Geralt to suss out the problem, when a flurry of movement came to stop on top of Geralt’s head.

Geralt sighed and tipped his chin up, indicating the small creature currently preening his hair. It was a bird, perfectly at home atop of a fearsome witcher’s head.

“This is what I’ve picked up,” he said. “Vesemir, meet Lark, my kinn.”

* * *

Vesemir had, as predicted, immediately become obsessed with investigating the kinn. It took some convincing to get Lark away from Geralt’s side, but Vesemir had decades of experience cajoling animals and children alike, and the old man could be a sweet talker when he needed to be.

“I don’t understand, Geralt,” the old witcher said, eyeballing the small bird as it hopped around his work table. “You said it just showed up? How did you know what it was?”

“Didn’t, at first. Just thought there was an annoying skylark singing me awake a few days in a row,” Geralt said, tossing a seed on the tabletop. “But then it started landing on me. Then on Roach when I would try to shoo it off. After about three weeks of following me I started to get suspicious. It didn’t trigger my medallion, so if it was magic, it wasn’t something I could detect.”

Vesemir hefted a book onto his knee, flipping worm pages hastily. “Your medallion isn’t tuned to detect it. Kinn magic is different from monsters or mages.” He glanced up at Geralt, eyebrow raised. “You didn’t feel any immediate bond to it?”

“Just annoyance,” Geralt admitted. Lark looked up to him and chirruped loudly, feathers puffing. “You know you are,” he countered.

Vesemir’s lip twitched in a stifled smile. “And you said you went to get it looked at? By who?”

“Some local peller. He knew right away what it was, proclaimed it was a kinn and it was most certainly mine. Male skylark. Chatty, vain, full of energy and stubborn as hell. Not much else to it.”

The old witcher was clearly smiling now. The small uptick in his lips was subtle to others, but to Geralt it was an all out grin. “I am so very curious to meet his mirror.”

Geralt sighed. He didn’t even want to think about the human equivalent of his kinn. Even though he had traveled the last seven months with Lark, he was still completely at a loss as to what this meant. 

“Anything in the records about witchers and kinn?”

“Very few,” Vesemir offered his hand out to the bird, who hopped on fearlessly. “And unfortunately, none of them from our school. We thought it was part of the transformation- a severance from that sort of magical bond, or at least in a majority of cases. Kinn bonding is ancient magic, older than any writings. This is a being unlike any other.”

Geralt eyed the massive tomes Vesimir had pulled out, one an account from the school of the griffin, and one from the school of the bear.“You said there was a few?”

“Two. There was a case in the bear school of a witcher receiving a kinn and rejecting it. The account only states he “withered” afterwards, then died fighting an aghoul. The other I found said the witcher received a kinn and then disappeared. No recorded death, no further sightings.” Vesemir very carefully stroked the bird with a forefinger, and Lark made a soft chirrup. “I’m assuming he left the Path and went to find his kinnmate.” 

Geralt tightened his lips, trying not to feel annoyance as Vesemir showed the kinn kindness. He never did, so there was no reason to be bothered. He glanced away and muttered quietly, “what about breaking the bond?”

Most people considered kinn to be a gift. Geralt couldn’t see anything but a curse. A tether tied without consent. He did not want to be bound to another: his life was not one to be shared. Maybe if his kinnmate was another witcher, then it would make sense, but no witcher was a damned songbird at heart.

Vesimir sighed. “The Path is to be taken alone,” he recited. “It is not a place for wives or children, only our brothers may walk with us. And only then for a short while.” 

Vesemir looked to the kinn in his palm. “However, Geralt, there is no accounting for kinn. This is more than just a partner he is offering you- this is a chance to become whole. A kinnmate is an amplifier of yourself, a person who brings the best of you to light and strengthens it.” Something almost wistful ghosted across Vesemir’s face. “This kinn may very well be leading you down your Path. Killing it…” Lark seemed to shudder in his palm and chirped almost timidly. Vesemir soothed it again with a soft stroke. “Killing your kinn will destroy parts of you, and I’m afraid, like the account shows, you will not survive it.”

Geralt feared as much. There was many a woeful tale of a person killing their kinn, upset at what the creature had brought them for a mate. Insanity and misfortune followed them, and their lives became brief and painful. A witcher may survive longer under those conditions, but to what extent?

Lark turned its head to look at him, black eyes shining. Geralt thought the very mention of killing it would cause the bird to go into a fit, but the kinn only watched him, defiant. It already knew that he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t. 

“Well,” Geralt sighed, “that leads us to the next problem to solve: how do I keep this little lark safe?”

Vesemir set the kinn back on the table and clapped his hands once. “Now there is a problem I may be able to help with.”

* * *

Lambert had, very predictably, laughed himself half to death. Geralt was concerned for a moment at the fact he was tearing up and wheezing, his cackles echoing in the vast space of the hall. 

“You have a fucking kinn? A fucking song bird kinn?”

Geralt grumbled at him. Lark was also unamused, churruping grumpily from his shoulder. 

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt! Look at the size of it! What the hell does its mirror look like?”

“The kinn doesn’t always physically reflect its mirror,” Geralt grumbled. “It’s their personality.”

Lambert wiped his eyes, lip quivering as he tried to keep his laughter at bay to speak. “Gods, that’s fucking worse! Your soulmate is a loud, sing-song fop? I need to you to find them, immediately. I have to know. If you don’t come back next winter with your boyfriend I will not survive.”

“Good, die.” Geralt growled, enticing more laughter from Lambert. The sex of the kinn didn’t reflect the sex of the mirror, either, but he felt like an idiot saying it. It was embarrassing to defend his ridiculous fate to his prick of a brother. “Platonic matches exist. It might not be romantic.”

“What fun is that?” Lambert huffed, crossing his arms. “If you get yourself a sweet little songbird of a human that loves you eternally, you better fuck them. Why would you not fuck them?”

Geralt pointed to Lark. “This bird is not sweet. This bird is an asshole.” Lark pecked his finger and flew up to perch on a rafter, beginning a jaunty little tune that resonated about the room. Lambert broke into laughter again.

“Fuck, that’s even better!” He was beside himself, and Geralt secretly liked the joy Lambert had at his expense. He was such a downer all the time. He deserved a laugh. 

Lambert stared up at Lark, who sang away, clear and pretty. “Hey, at least we will have some music that isn’t Eskel’s drunken singing this winter.” 

Geralt begrudgingly agreed.

* * *

Eskel had, unpredictability, not reacted at all. Geralt was sure his more quiet brother would have an academic interest in the kinn, but the other witcher glanced at Lark quickly and then went about his work in the kitchen.

“That it?” He asked, slicing venison away from the bone. He had been out that morning and downed a fat doe. 

Lark took off around the kitchen, trilling and curious.

“Yeah, that’s Lark.” Geralt said.

“Got some extra seed from the poppies and sunflowers. Was going to make some potions and oil from it but I can spare a pound or two.”

“I brought a bag of seed with me,” Geralt said, nodding to the food provisions he had dropped on the table earlier. “Should be plenty. He’s a light eater, but thank you.”

Eskel nodded, pulling a strip of meat away with a perfect, clean cut. “No problem, brother.” 

He wiped his hands against the butcher’s apron he wore and flipped the haunch he was working on. “I heard Lambert damn near piss himself in the hall.”

Geralt hummed. “He deserves a laugh every once and a while. And it is pretty ridiculous.”Eskel shrugged, adding more meat to the pile. 

“You want some help with that?” Geralt offered. He had missed his fellows, and every winter is was a relief to see them again, still alive with fresh tales and to tell.

“Why not?” Eskel said, flicking his knife to point out another, stabbed into the butcher block. “Get those tenderloins, we’ll have them for dinner. Vesemir did well with the herb garden this year so the rosemary and garlic are begging to be eaten.”

Geralt smiled, pulling the carcass to him and getting to work. “You’re spoiling me my first night back.”

Eskel elbowed him. “Because it’s good to see you again, Geralt. Now come on, let’s hear what certain death you managed to escape from this season.”

Lark fluttered about, singing softly, and Geralt began to recant a particularly harrowing account of a rather salacious bogwitch, which had Eskel chuckling next to him in no time.

* * *

Vesemir liked a project. Normally his projects consisted of patching walls and rebinding old books, sweeping and stacking and generally trying to keep Kaer Morhen from falling down around them. Building a gadget was a welcome distraction.

Geralt figured, with his lifestyle, a bird as small and fragile as Lark will inevitably end up crushed. Even if the bird kept to Roach, which he did not, there was still a lot of danger there. Kinn were hearty creatures: much harder to kill than the average beast, and were brilliantly smart. In a normal world, a kinn would be fine on it’s own. Geralt’s world was not normal.

Vesemir suggested a cage, small and portable, made of thick iron bars coated in silver. Kinn had no reaction to the metal, and it would keep any monsters away. The iron would be strong enough to protect its host from a tumble or a strike. Geralt could hook it onto Roach’s saddle and house Lark safely when needed.

It wasn’t exactly satisfying living quarters, but Geralt wouldn’t use it every day. 

“You’ll need to find a mage to charm it,” Vesemir said, inspecting the silver coating. It made the cage bright and a bit gaudy. Fitting for its inhabitant. “It needs a suspension charm to keep him from getting shaken to death when Roach gallops. Other than that, it’ll be a fine bit of armor for your companion.”

Geralt felt slightly more confident in his ability to not get his kinn killed, and by extension, himself. He had the luck of acquiring a scrap of charmed cloth that dampened sound, and it could be made into a cage cover. Geralt was decent enough with a needle to do it himself. 

Lambert found him as he checked the fit.

“Does it understand what I am saying to it?” He said, apropos of nothing at all. Lark was hopping along a beam above them. Working on a new whistle. Geralt was able to tune most of it out by now.

“Vesemir thinks so.” Geralt frowned at a poor stitch and pulled it. “He understands me, but maybe that’s the bond. I don’t know.”

“Hey,” called Lambert. Lark looked at him, expectant. “If you understand me, you need quit shitting on the floor, you fuck.”

Geralt bit back a smile as the kinn took off and dropped a shit almost expertly on Lambert’s receding hairline. His brother swore and swiped at the mess, then attempted a poorly formed Aard at the kinn. All he succeeded in doing was sending the bird soaring higher into the hall where he let loose a trill that was very much like a laugh.

“Your kinn is a fucking asshole.”

Geralt was nearly alarmed with the small thrill of amusement that gave him. Maybe there would be a benefit to this catastrophe.

* * *

Winters at Kaer Morhen consisted of fighting during training, fighting during games of Gwent, and fighting over who had the best kill of the season. There was also a fair amount of drinking, card games, equipment repair and general down time. Geralt considered it fairly relaxing, as far as his life allowed. Lambert’s loud bitching and Eskel’s charming laughter were welcome noises in the vast halls. The spring beneath the keep still bubbled hot water for the baths, and he slept better knowing his brothers were near. It was no wonder Vesemir encouraged them to return every winter. 

Lark seemed to adjust well, and greatly enjoyed the lofty ceilings and various places to perch. Half of the time Geralt only knew where his kinn was by sound, alone. Various tunes echoed down the halls and the chirping was near constant. The only time Lark was silent was when he was asleep, nestled on Geralt’s pillow. 

He was thankful that his brothers weren’t as short tempered with the kinn as he had been upon meeting it. Eskel seemed to ignore it, but on closer inspection, Geralt noticed him leaving small piles of breadcrumbs after breakfast. Lambert talked to it near constantly, arguing with the kinn as if it were actually talking back. Geralt had been dreading returning home with Lark, but after his initial hazing, it didn’t seem like his brothers were bothered by it in the slightest.

The most enjoyable portion of his winters were, besides sleeping and bathing whenever he pleased, drinking and taking all of Eskel’s money in Gwent. They didn’t stay up late every evening, but Lambert finally brought out his newest version of a White Gull cocktail, and they were thoroughly in the cups by midnight.

They’d played cards until they were simply too drunk for proper math, then tried to outdo each other with their most disgusting kills of the year. Lambert talked for a quarter of an hour about his adventurous weekend with a pair of women who had been very thankful for his services and for his sterility. Eskel called bullshit and the two ended up wrestling and nearly knocking the table over. Geralt got them back in their chairs by pouring another cup.

Apparently awoken by the scrap, Lark flitted down from wherever he had perched nearby, hopping on the table, head tilted in curiosity.

“Hello, Lark.” Geralt said, flicking a seed he had in his pocket to the kinn. 

Lambert rolled his eyes at Geralt. “I can’t believe you’re just calling it Lark. You are so boring.”

“That’s what it is.”

Eskel snorted. “Lark is certainly better than what you’d name it, Lambert. You’d probably call it Tit.”

Lambert slapped his hand on the table. Lark jumped and shot him a glare, the ruff of feathers on his head fluffed in alarm. “Hey, a tit is a bird! It’s a little, fat, round bird!”

Annoyed by Lambert’s antics, Lark hopped over to Eskel and began to whistle a tune. Eskel was drunk enough to smile openly. He didn’t often smile too wide when sober: the expression twisted the scarred portion of his mouth into a snarl, and he didn’t like the look of it. Geralt didn’t even notice anymore. “You better have a good match planned for my friend here, Lark,” he said. “I don’t want you bringing him someone awful.”

Geralt shook his head. “I may never meet them. I may just live for 100 more years with a skylark singing in my ear, annoying me until I die.”

“Nah,” Lambert said, now slumped over the table and half laying on it, “you’ll find them. You’ve got the luck out of the three of us.”

Now that was a good joke. Geralt barked a harsh laugh and drank deeply. “I have the worst luck on the continent.”

“Oh sure, it looks like that,” Lambert flapped a hand at him, “but somehow you always turn out on top of it.” He pitched his voice mockingly. “Oh no, my mutagens are affecting me! Surprise, I just got stronger and now I look like a sexy grandpa.”

“Oh, Lambert,” Eskel said, “I didn’t know you had a thing for the geriatric.”

“Fuck off.” Lambert flicked a crumb at his brother with amazing accuracy for one so drunk, pinging it off of his forehead. Eskel only laughed. “What I am saying, Geralt, is that even after mutating more than the two of us and losing all your pigment like a fucking cave fish, it didn’t do anything but help make you more good looking. Your bad luck ends up with you on top, getting better.”

Geralt refilled his cup, grumbling. “I’m glad one of us is an optimist about my life.”

Lambert crooked his finger at Lark, beckoning him back towards his end of the table. “Come here and sing me a song, kinn,” he said. “You need to earn your bird feed around here.”

Lark puffed himself up and looked almost pleased for a request. Geralt huffed at the kinn bopped over to Lambert and began to sing. It was genuinely surprising that what came out was actually a popular tune.

“Oh shit, I know this one!” Lambert crowed triumphantly, his drunken voice singing along.

Eskel smiled at the absolute wreck of a performance happening before them, and looked to Geralt.

“You do seem to have a target on you for all things unusual, brother,” he said, barely audible over Lambert’s howling. “The third ever recorded Witcher with a kinn. Vesemir has already written a whole essay on you.”

Geralt scrubbed his hand over his face and hummed. “This can go bad easily.”

Eskel shrugged. “That could be said about anything and everything. A fight can be going perfect and turn on the head of a pin. It’s just the nature of things. Especially for you.” Eskel’s gaze was fond. His eyes had always been warmer than Geralt’s own. A richer shade of honey yellow. “Just walk the Path and let Lark show you what he has for you,” he continued. “You don’t have to be with your kinnmate forever. It’s a relationship meant to better you, to make you whole. It’s not enslavement.”

Geralt tried to be dismissive, but the encouragement meant something, coming from Eskel. “You’re sure of that?”

“Listen to me, I’m smarter than you.”

That made him snort. “This is the first you’ve said anything about it,” Geralt said, indicating the kinn still serenading Lambert. Eskel hadn’t asked him a single question about Lark other than if he needed some more seed to feed him with.

“Well, it seemed like a subject you weren’t too comfortable with,” Eskel conceded, “but you’re drunk now so you’re less likely to fight me on this.” Wasn’t that a sad little piece of truth. Geralt was always keen to Eskel’s advice, he just had trouble making himself take it. “When the time comes, let the kinn show you. This may be what you need.”

Geralt hummed into his cup and took another swill. “Just strange, is all. I’m not supposed to even have a kinnmate.”

“Yeah well, they couldn’t burn all the human out of us. We’re wolves, not vipers.”

Geralt could drink to that.

Silence descended as the song ended, and Lark was puffed and preening from the attention. Lambert’s level of intoxication was a good few swigs beyond his brothers, and, finished with his singing, he set his head face-first on the table. Lark flitted up to sit on Geralt’s head. He sighed, but didn’t fuss. At least he wasn’t pulling on Geralt’s hair, which the kinn did when he was annoyed and ignored.

“Why do you get a kinn?” Lambert groaned into the tabletop. “I want someone to love me.” Ah, there it was, Lambert’s inevitable sad, drunk statement. At least this time it wasn’t about how all his classmates were dead, or how his father abandoned him, or how he was cursed as a witcher. Lambert really knew how to bring everyone down when he was this far gone. 

Eskel shot Geralt a look and leaned over, patting the youngest wolf’s shoulder. “Don’t start. We love you, Lambert, you sad fuck.”

Lambert huffed and turned his head enough to glare at Eskel. His voice was muffled against the wood, but had a wry note to it. “You only say that because I gave you that rare Nilfgaardian card I had a double of. It was a moment of weakness. I felt bad for taking your whole purse.”

“That is part of it, yes,” Eskel agreed. Geralt didn’t know if he preferred yelling drunk Lambert to perverted drunk Lambert, but they were leagues better than sad drunk Lambert. Geralt was broody enough, he didn’t need competition.

“Quit being maudlin.” Eskel reached over again to rasp his knuckles against Lambert’s short hair. He growled in response. “Should I tell our dear friend Coën you don’t think he cares about you?”

Lambert picked his head off the table and pulled a face. “Oh gods, don’t. He’ll track me down and try to say something embarrassing about our friendship. Dumb noble Griffin.” Lambert, of course, liked Coën. They traveled together often, even shared contracts. He probably wouldn’t be angry if Coën did make a proclamation about their bond. He’d make fun of it, he would pretend it didn’t matter, but he would secretly be pleased. 

“Or,” Geralt mused, remembering another one of Lambert’s friends,“we could tell Aiden you are in need of love. I seem to remember him having very strong feelings about you.”

“He tried to throw me off a cliff!” 

Well, the School of the Cat wasn’t known for producing level-headed witchers. Eskel was full on cackling now, too drunk to suppress his amusement. Geralt knew he was probably smiling like a complete dope himself. It didn’t matter. This was the only place he was free to relax, to let the feelings he allowed out in the air. No one was here to witness them but Lark, and Lark wasn’t going to tell anyone. 

“He threw you with passion!” Eskel said. “I seem to remember you also telling me he had very skilled hands and a pretty face, so I’m sure he would be okay with loving you more!”

Lambert sputtered, caught. “I can’t believe I told you that. Why do I drink with you?” He complained. “You’re a fucking menace.”

Eskel pointed a finger at him. “Don’t blame me. You’re the kiss-and-tell. Whenever you’re drunk you end up confessing something filthy you’ve done.”

“Oh yeah? _I’m_ filthy?” Lambert said, eyes sparkling in challenge. He stood, wobbly, and used the table to hold him up. “Well, at least I’m not the guy who snorted fisstech and fucked the succubus he was supposed to be hunting, _Eskel_.”

Geralt had, unfortunately, been drinking in the middle of that sentence, and suffered the consequences. White Gull really burned the sinuses, and Lark didn’t appreciate Geralt dumping him onto the table as he bent over it, wheezing.

* * *

By the time the snow melted, Geralt felt more settled than he had in a long while. His reflexes were fine tuned by daily training, he had slept well, bathed often and ate enough to rebuild muscle. His brothers, although prickly and boisterous in turns, had been a welcome reprieve from the quiet loneliness of the Path. This winter has been far better than the years before. There was more laughter and less arguments. Lambert even managed to restrain himself to only one screaming match with Vesemir per week. It was an astonishing accomplishment. 

Spring was fast approaching, and even though Lark wasn’t a real bird, he seemed infused with the excitement the season brought. The kinn couldn’t stay still, and flew from Geralt’s shoulder to a nearby tree, then across to another. He even dared to come down and perch on Roach’s head before she tossed him.

Looking at the kinn didn’t give Geralt the same feeling of dread it had four months prior. Time in the keep allowed him to think, to hear the opinions of his peers. His fate with the kinn was unknown, but it did no good to dwell on it as if it were an axe poised to fall. 

The Path came first. It always did. His purpose was to protect the people of the world from the monsters within it, to use his skills to help where he could. For a price, naturally. He was still a realist, and his purse wasn’t getting heavier on charity. 

Geralt skirted Ard Carraigh, not in the mood for the crowds, and stopped in Daevon for supplies. He decided to make his way south. Ban Glean had issues with water hags last year after the spring flooding, and it stood to reason it may happen again as the Pontar swelled with the melt. He’d follow the river down, working as he went. The season brought a bright chorus of birdsong in the forests, and Geralt found himself more appreciative of the melodies echoing amongst the trees. 

He could clearly hear which voice was singing for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel/Succubus is game canon. Man literally admitted to snorting crack and banging a demon. It’s always the sweet guys who are the freaks.


	3. Held Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt hears a familiar tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is like a week late, I literally rewrote everything and changed the whole plot like a crazy person.

If he had started with a good mood towards that season, that quickly disappeared. After thoroughly sloshing through the damage caused by the Pontar flooding and all of the wet and revolting creatures that came with it, Geralt was fed up. He’d dealt with dozens of drowners, water hags, mucknixers and a few foglets. All in all, a very muddy, very damp group of monsters, and Geralt was convinced he had bogwater in his ear for three weeks. 

Lark, of course, had no problems with his marshy adventures, and stayed dry and aloft, watching Geralt struggle from a safe perch. He tried not to be too bitter: it wasn’t as if the kinn could help him in a fight. Lark did, however, try to pick the mud out of Geralt’s hair, and ate the mosquitos that buzzed tinnily in his ears. At least the kinn was attempting to earn his keep.

Once he reached the southern edge of the Kestrel Mountains, Geralt quit fucking around in the marshes. The money made off of the water-rotten filth he had culled gave him enough to travel north through Redania in some comfort. 

Things were looking better until he was recognized just east of Drakenborg, following the rumors of a leshen bothering a logging operation. He was well south of Blaviken, but the whole of Redania knew his reputation, and now that he had enough coin to stay in an inn, he ran a risk.

The man who spit on the table in front of him missed his ale by a scant inch. 

“Thought we served better here than murderers. You best not be thinking of spending the night,” the local snarled. “We haven’t had a hanging in months.”

Geralt sighed, drank the rest of his drink lest the man get better aim.

His friend crowded in as well, smelling of horse shit and bad beer. “Dwarves and elves are bad enough, but now we have a mutant beast sitting in the pub.” He raised his voice, turned his head to project to the room at large. The chatter had quieted. Geralt would have to leave soon. This was only going to get worse. 

“Better arm yourselves for protection my friends! We have a killer amongst us. The Butcher of Blaviken, here to cut throats and split guts!”

There was a moment of silence, and then someone threw a rather hard crust of bread at Geralt’s head. He caught it, of course- snatched it out of the air easily. That only seemed to unsettle everyone further.

He knew more people were readying objects to pelt him with. Geralt stood slowly, keeping his gaze down and non confrontational, and prepared himself for a hail of cups and various food items.

The moment was interrupted by a flutter of wings. Lark zipped through the open window, a cheery, sweet song in his throat, and landed directly on Geralt’s head.

Geralt was stuck between thinking the kinn was ingenious, or idiotic. Whatever the thought process, the arrival of a small, trilling bird seemed to freeze everyone in place. Geralt chanced a glance up and saw several people paused with objects in hand, staring. 

Lark hopped around on top of his head, and Geralt brought his hand up very slowly, his index finger extended. Taking the cue, the kinn hopped onto his waiting finger. Someone gasped, as if they thought the horrible witcher would surely crush such an innocent thing, but Geralt only brought Lark to his shoulder, setting him on his pauldron. 

“I’m going to leave,” Geralt said, clear and slow. He stepped carefully, hands up and empty, save the small crust of bread he still held. No one moved to stop him as he made for the door. 

“Look,” he muttered, waving the bread as he pushed outside, “they gave me your dinner.”

The door closed behind him, and Geralt heard a very clear ‘what the fuck?’ from inside. He fed Lark a crumb and bit back a smile. 

* * *

It happened again a few days later, but Lark was asleep on his shoulder when the local drunk came to confront him. The kinn perked at the noise and hopped onto the the table, small curious peeps already interrupting the abusive tirade the man was unleashing on Geralt. The drunk stopped and stared for a moment as Lark hopped about, and Geralt decided to try something.

Very carefully, the witcher reached out with a singular finger, and pet Lark. The kinn glowed in the attention and sang sweetly, his voice pretty and loud.

“What’s at?” The drunk slurred, swaying. The people at the next table, who had all turned to watch the drama unfold, and to gawk at a mutant, no doubt, were equally puzzled.

“It’s my bird.” Geralt tried to pour some affection into his voice. Lark fluffed and tweeted, obviously doing his best to look adorable. “I raised him from a chick. He fell out of his nest, was going to be eaten.” Geralt didn’t like lying: it made him feel unpleasant and he wasn’t good at it. It wasn’t that drastic a lie, not quite. Lark was, indeed, his bird.

The belligerent drunk looked like someone took the air out of him. “You gotta baby bird n raised it? What?” 

At the next table, a woman sighed dreamily. 

“Well,” the man said, waving a hand in front of him, “you mussn’t be the guy. Sorry bout that. Cheers”

And that was that. Geralt was left alone. The man wandered off, the table next to him stared a bit longer, then whispered about how gentle and ‘sweet he is’ and ‘perhaps he likes animals more than people’ and ‘look at how much it loves him!’. Geralt got to eat a well-cooked meal and sleep in a bed and all the looks were on Lark, who was now utterly irritating with how happy and loud he was being. It wasn’t an awful trade.

After that, Geralt may have made a habit of using Lark to disarm suspicious and cruel people. It wasn’t as if the kinn minded. If anything, Lark had started the entire ruse, so now it was just part of his interactions with humans. Only once did a man take a swipe at Lark, but the bird was fast and a witcher was faster. Geralt wasted a whole mug of mead by throwing it in the man’s face, but the uproar of anger from the pub’s patrons was what stopped an oncoming fight. Geralt was surprised when a woman from a few seats down slapped the man who’d tried to hurt Lark hard across the face. Apparently, people liked little birds.

Lark actually succeeded in getting him laid, which was just astonishing. The prostitute he’d approached was overly cautious and he smelled her fear spike, but when Geralt politely backed off, Lark swooped in and hopped around on his head. The woman burst into laughter as Geralt hushed the kinn and tried to convince him off. Lark tittered and tried to rub his head on Geralt’s fingers.

“Gods, that's such a sight!” She laughed, cheeks rouging nicely. “Look at how sweet on you it is!” Her face had immediately softened, and the stink of fear was gone, replaced with the light perfume of amusement and joy. “Come on then, witcher, let’s see how I can help you.”

The kinn was causing such a strange little upheaval in his life that Geralt barely thought of the mirror Lark was supposedly going to lead him to. Vesemir gave Geralt all the reading they had on kinn and their magic over the winter, so he was well versed on the likelihood of finding Lark’s mirror at all. Kinn were uncommon, finding the kinnmate was even more rare. Sure, he had more time than most to find his match, but unless they were also ageless, it wasn’t likely they had the same.

Although he accepted that there was kinnmate out in the world for him, it wasn’t anything we looked forward to or expected. 

Lark was more than enough as far as company went.

* * *

The summer continued on, drying the river lands and making them bearable to be in, and he had enough of Redania. The contracts got a little better when he turned back south and crossed the Pontar. The leshen had been difficult, but it paid well. Leshen heads were impressive trophies, but easy to fake, but the man who ran the logging camp didn’t even try to argue with him that it wasn’t authentic.

There was a call for a witcher in Vengerberg, and Geralt begrudgingly went. Roach was burdened with various monster parts he’d harvested, and there was an alchemist in Vengerberg who paid enough to make it worth tramping through the wretched, swamped out pass. He’d also managed to find a half decent mage to finish the suspension charm on the cage so Lark wouldn’t be jostled to death. 

The people in Aedirn were less friendly than Redania, and that was a hard thing to do. No one outwardly confronted him, but he was pretty sure someone pissed in his ale more than once. He should have gone to Temeria.

He finished one contract, then the next, and when word got around that there was a working witcher he had more. Apparently he wasn’t the only witcher that disliked Aedirn this season, because there was work.

Geralt figured that one more job would do, and then he could turn back and winter in Temeria.

The contact for the job had given a meeting place, just outside Upper Posada. He wasn’t exactly enthused: this stretch of the Blue Mountains was known for a fair amount of trouble, but that was why a witcher was needed.

Geralt had enough money to stay in an inn by the tavern he would meet his employer in, and he played with the idea. A bed would be nice, but if he was to winter away from the keep, he would need to save coin. 

It was later in the evening, growing dark already, and the meeting was set for the next day. He eyed the unappealingly creaky bridge that ran from the roadway to the tavern. Posada was a strange place. Geralt hated the clustered, towering buildings and the rope bridges that connected them. He didn’t trust the inn was built much better. He could camp outside the town and wander back in the morning for the contract. 

Geralt clicked at Roach and tapped his heels, urging her on. She snorted, annoyed that she was not heading to the welcoming stable just off the road. Geralt tried to placate her with a pat on her neck. While he bent down, the door opened to the tavern and a voice drifted out over the ravine.

“This is a new one I’ve been working on, and you’re my premier audience. Yes, you madame. Let me just…”

A chord resonated out the open door, then muffled as it clapped closed. Even muffled, the first few notes had Geralt sitting stiff in the saddle. He knew that song, those chords. He could hum along if pressed. Geralt heard that song on a loop just the week prior, chirped directly into his ear.

It felt as if a stone had been dropped on his chest. Air left him in a rush and Geralt heeled Roach harder than usual. She whinnied and lurched into movement, breaking into a gallop. A man walking alongside the road shouted as the burst past, and there was a clamor behind them, but Geralt didn’t care. He needed space, immediately.

Roach must have sensed his unease, for she picked up speed as they cleared the buildings, running out into the coming night. The plains spread wide again as they cleared the rockiness of the ravine edge. Geralt managed to gasp in a breath after a moment, and pulled her reins to slow her into a trot.

The witcher passed a hand over his face, trying to calm himself. He did not get rattled. He was not feeling fear. He tried to focus on slowing his heart, on pacing his breath. Panic was not a feeling he was built to have.

Geralt twisted in the saddle, looking down at the cage resting along Roach’s flank, tied to the side of his pack. He had put Lark to bed as the sun set, letting the little bird sleep as they rode. Lark was still in the cage, good.

He would have to abandon the contract. There was no way he was returning to that tavern. He’d make for Temeria straight away, work until the end of the season, find a place to hole up in until spring.

His planning was interrupted as a beast ran up to them, bursting from the dark. It was fast and gleaming, whipping around to stop in front of them. Roach skidded to a hard stop, huffing angrily. The animal in the road stood stiff-legged and unafraid, flashing teeth in a baleful snarl.

Geralt swore, reaching for his sword. What was a lone wolf doing so near a town, and what made it think a horse was easy prey? 

Roach stomped and tossed her head, challenging the predator, and the wolf snapped and snarled, but did not move. Roach had had enough, and bucked in agitation. Geralt cursed as he lept off of her, avoiding a hard fall by rolling in the road. She ran a few paces off, turned wild-eyed and ready to kick should the wolf near her.

The beast, however, only had eyes for Geralt. It stalked in slowly, moving like it was herding him, trying to turn him around. Perhaps the rest of its pack lay in waiting. He drew his steel sword, and listened for the sounds of others, but besides the bustle of people in the distance, a few running footfalls, there was nothing. 

It had to be rabid. No lone beast would face off against a horse and an armed man. Perhaps a mother protecting pups? No, it was nearly early autumn, too late for that. It was sick, mad.

Geralt moved in on the wolf, intending to make quick work of it and put the beast down. It danced away from his swipe, graceful and cunning. He lunged again, and the animal moved in tandem, dodging his strikes. No rabid beast was that sure-footed. 

His earlier panic still had its claws hooked in him, and this unsettling beast made it worse. Geralt drew a hasty Aard, throwing it at the wolf. The pressure knocked the beast down, and Geralt staggered, struck by a phantom hand. The wolf rolled onto its feet and stalked towards him again. Its eyes were sharp, too intelligent for an animal.

Geralt drew a ragged breath, bore his teeth in a grimace. When he struck the wolf he’d felt the ghost of the Sign pushed back upon him. Aard didn’t work that way. 

Geralt knew what he was looking at.

“No,” he snarled, trying to move towards Roach, trying to leave. His mirror stood in the way, defiant. Every time he came close to his horse the wolf came between them, making Roach trot back, unsettled. The kinn was holding him there. 

“No,” Geralt repeated, furious, “get out of my way. I’m not…” he choked off the next words as a sound came louder behind him: someone was running down the road towards them.

A person.

The kinn’s person.

Anger rushed out of him, left Geralt feeling like he slipped into an abyss, as if the road dropped suddenly. He wasn’t ready, but the footsteps neared, the wolf kept him at bay. He wasn’t ready. A voice called out. He wasn’t ready.

It didn’t matter. 

The kinn took its eyes off Geralt, looked to the person standing behind him. 

“Oh! Please don’t hurt her!” The person, a young man by the sound of him, called out, breathing hard. It was obvious he had been running after the kinn. “I swear she’s not going to hurt you! Oh Wolf, what have you done? Darling, please come here!”

Geralt had spent so much time wondering about what he would think of his match that he failed to take into consideration what they would think of him. No sane person would want a witcher for a kinnmate. No normal human could love him like that. The oversight was enormous. The person behind him was about to be traumatized, and the witcher had no idea what to do about it. He wasn’t ready, but they would  _ never _ be. 

Steadying himself, Geralt closed his eyes, breathed deep, and turned around.

The man in the road was tousled and winded, young and spindly and as tall as Geralt himself. His doublet was silk; expensive and crisp, but his pack was old and worn. He had a lute case clutched to his side. 

What had fate brought him?

“This animal is yours?” Geralt growled, voice rougher than usual. He gestured to the wolf, apparently also named Wolf, with his sword.

“Yes!” The young man gasped, hurrying a few steps closer. The sight of a blade so close to his kinn must have unnerved him. Geralt was making a wonderful first impression. “Please, she’s not going to bite you, I’m so sorry she just ran off and…” the sentence died on his lips as he neared, close enough now to see details in the last of the gloaming’s light. Blue eyes widened as he took in Geralt’s person, flicking quickly over his armor and weaponry, back to his face. The witcher waited for his judgement, readying for a blow.

“Wow,” the young man whispered, mouth slightly agape. “You’re really…”  _ terrifying _ , Geralt thought,  _ a mutant, a monster, a cursed being _ \- “handsome,” he finished.

Geralt felt incredibly wrong footed, and he huffed in surprise. The young man smiled in delight. He was just as insane as his kinn.

“You’re a drunkard with a wolf for a pet,” Geralt said, because even though he knew it was a kinn, he wasn’t quite ready to say it.

“Oh, I only had one glass! I made it across that horrible bridge without falling off!” The young man exclaimed, putting a defiant hand on his hip. He had a loud flamboyance that Geralt was already very accustomed to from Lark. It was even more ridiculous in a person. The fop stepped closer, squinting at Geralt in the low light. “Wow,” he said, actual awe in his voice, “you’re a witcher, aren’t you?” Geralt sniffed subtly, watched the man’s pupils. There wasn’t a hint of fear on him, only the smell of sweat and excitement. “I’ve never met one.”

Geralt glanced around. They were in the middle of the road in a quickly darkening field. An animal rustled in the brush a few yards off. “This is not the best place to meet one.”

“Well, if there are monsters I think I am quite safe! But yes, I was in the tavern and she just took off running.” He gestured to the kinn, clicking his fingers. “Wolf, darling please come here.” Amazingly, the kinn obeyed, trotting over to lean against the man’s side. He combed his fingers through the fur on her shoulder, and the kinn’s mouth split in a panting grin. “There’s my love.”

Bizarrely enough, that was what jerked Geralt back into movement, and he made for Roach again. How this human could be so casually sweet to a dangerous animal, even if it were a kinn, was jarring. Roach was still glaring at them from several paces away, and very nearly bolted on Geralt as he approached. He didn’t blame her.

The man, startled, moved forward as well. “Please, allow me to apologize for her rudeness!” He said, looking chagrined as Geralt glanced over his shoulder. He really did have a charming face. A busker almost needed that to survive. “Come back with me to the tavern, my treat.” 

By his side, Wolf snapped her mouth closed, grin gone, just daring Geralt to try to leave again. Damn kinn. Geralt knew she would chase him, try to pull him off of Roach. They were mirrors, after all. That'd be what he’d do. 

“I’ve never met a witcher before,” the young man went on, oblivious to the standoff between two wolves. “I have so many questions. I’ll buy you some dinner, something. Please, she was such a menace.”

Geralt sighed. He was hungry and tired, Roach was pissed and they weren’t going to be going anywhere. Fate had him well and truely caught. 

Seeing his defeat, the young man smiled and dipped in a slight bow. “My name is Jaskier, by the way. I’m a bard and troubadour! Pleasure to meet you.”

“Geralt,” he grunted, reaching for Roach’s reins so he could walk her back to the stables she had eyed before. He was sure she would buck him if he tried to ride her. Roach wasn’t about to let him go unpunished, and bit Geralt soundly on the bicep. He swore at her and, Jaskier, the ass, laughed. 

Geralt tugged her reins, but didn’t bother scolding her. He deserved it. “This is Roach,” he said, pulling her along.

“Oh poor Roach, I am so sorry!” Jaskier said, giving her space so the kinn did not spook her. “To be so harassed!”

They walked down the road together, Jaskier and Wolf on one side, Geralt leading Roach on the other. Night had settled in now, and Geralt could tell Jaskier couldn’t see well.

He thought, for a moment, to light a torch- but the kinn took lead and the young man lightly grasped her tail. She led him along the darkness without fail, and he followed blindly, trusting her eyes. 

Geralt watched the small display, then glanced behind to the covered cage on the pack. Lark was quiet and locked away, but in the dark he heard a familiar tune, resonating now from the young man who walked alongside him.

* * *

True to his word, the bard bought him a tankard of ale that was mostly water, and a bowl of stew that was probably squirrel with only one rat thrown in. Considering Geralt had eaten a pigeon raw two days ago, it was a marked improvement. 

Concentrating on the meal makes the moment only slightly less surreal. In the better light of the tavern the bard’s silk clothing shines gaudily, and Geralt tries not to be completely thrown by how young the man looks. He can’t be past 20, face smooth and bright in his youth. He looked untouched by the rough world around him. Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised if the man was part fey.

His kinn was a stark contrast. The wolf was nearly haggard looking by comparison. She had a criss-cross of scars over her muzzle, and her eyes were suspicious and keen. She was massive by wolf standards. Geralt only saw beasts that looked like that on Skellige and Poviss. 

“So,” Jaskier said, and wasn’t that name an apt description. A man with the name of a pretty weed. Geralt would have laughed if he wasn’t struck dumb by this entire ordeal. “You’re a witcher! I’ve actually heard of you, too! Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt didn't hide the sneer at the title he knew was next on the bard’s lips. Jaskier’s eyes widened as he seemed to think better of saying it, and took a deep drink instead. Geralt sniffed subtly to see if he could pick up fear from him, but only got nervousness instead. Why the man wasn’t terrified of being kinnmate to a notorious murderer was strange.

“Not the greatest reputation, I’ll give you that,” he added, trying to wave the tension away, “but that’s the gossip mill for you. I prefer making gossip, not taking it as fact.” The smile was on the bard’s lips again, deft and charming. “Your profession is so very interesting, though. The excitement of it all!”

“Witcher isn’t my profession,” Geralt growled, “it’s what I am.”

“Yes of course, even more interesting!”

Geralt felt his lip curl in irritation: he wasn’t about to be freak entertainment for some curious fop. Fuck what kinn magic said.

Next to Jaskier, Wolf bristled at him, almost as if she was warning Geralt to mind his manners. It was strange to be scolded by a magical animal, but he thought about Lark and how the small kinn would likely do the same by pecking him in the head.

Geralt took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to keep his temper in check. When he opened them, the wolf kinn looked almost smug.

Geralt shot her a glare but looked back to Jaskier. “Why does a traveling bard have a pet wolf?”

The young man puffed himself up with obvious pride. “She’s my kinn, actually.” His long musician’s fingers drifted down to pet gently behind her ears, and the kinn hummed in obvious pleasure. “My faithful, darling kinn… have you seen kinn before?” Jaskier perked and leaned forward, obviously searching. “They aren’t monsters but they are magic.”

Geralt shrugged. “Yes. Lots of humans have kinn.”

“I hear some elves and dwarves do, too!” Jaskier cast a quick glance over Geralt’s person. “Do witchers?”

There it was, the question.  _ Are you him? You look like you’re him. You have to be him. _ Geralt had Lark hidden away in his cage, and so far the bard was clueless to his whereabouts. 

It was too soon. Geralt needed time to deal with this catastrophe.

“No.”

If the bard was shocked by this, he hid it well. His smell didn’t even change, just stayed anxious and curious. “Oh, like a mage doesn’t, then? How sad.” 

Geralt ducked away from the assessing gaze, emptying his drink. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I suppose if you’re okay with it.”

“I am.” 

That was that. For now, Lark would be his secret. As much of a secret as a damned kinn could be, at least.

“So!” Jaskier sat back and slapped a hand on the table, “tell me, dear witcher, what brings you here?”

Geralt huffed. Back to the foolish curiosity. “I have a contract tomorrow. Some sort of creature stealing provisions.”

The bard practically lit up. “Oh, how exciting! Say, witcher- Geralt, would it be alright if I came along?” He leaned forward, stupidly hopeful. Apparently the bard wasn’t just interested in him as a kinnmate, but as an adventure in general. “I swear I will be very little trouble! Wolf is a wonderful bodyguard. I would love to see a witcher at work! There’s no good songs about the deeds of witchers, you’re all so very mysterious! I could, perhaps, gain some inspiration?”

This was not what Geralt expected. He thought that telling the man that he was kinnless would dissuade him. Who wanted to be bonded to someone who wasn’t bonded to them? And who the fuck would want to follow a witcher into danger for fun?

“Why?”

“Why not?” Jaskier was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Witchers don’t hurt people, so you aren’t going to harm me, and I would like to see what it is you do.”

“It’s a lot of blood and trying not to die.”

“That sounds thrilling.”

Geralt sighed. Of course it figured that something was wrong with Geralt’s kinnmate. He should have known. Fuck fate and fuck kinn magic. He had a fool bound to him, and the fool was keen to follow. Geralt didn’t even give his permission, Jaskier had decided for him.

Once their meal was over, the bard followed Geralt out to the stables where he had set Roach up for the night. He planned to sleep in the corner of the stall, as he usually did when he was pinching coin. He would have to feed and water Lark in the morning before stowing him away again. The kinn wouldn’t be happy, but Geralt was certain a gentle Axii would convince him it was for the best. 

Jaskier apparently had an arrangement with a local about sleeping in her shed, so his conditions weren’t much better. He didn’t look one bit put out as the parted ways.

“Good night, witcher! Good night, Roach.” Roach glared at him from her stall. “I am excited for tomorrow! Sleep well.”

And as easy as that, the young man walked off, his kinn at heel and a whistle on his lips. Geralt stared after them, well after they were out of sight. What was going on? Why the fuck was any of this happening? When a kinn had landed on him more than a year before, he hadn’t any idea what to expect, but this was more outrageous than fiction.

Geralt stood motionless at the door of the stall, trying to get his confusion in check. 

Roach huffed, annoyed he was taking up so much space, and bit him.

* * *

The contract, of course, went to utter shit. If it were just the case of a thieving sylvan, that is solved with no problem at all, but that’s not the case. Because Geralt did NOT have the best luck of all the witchers (fuck off, Lambert), there was an entire company of elves behind said sylvan, and of course it’s Filavandrel who is leading them, and of course they get captured.

As they sat there, trussed up, about to die, all Geralt could think was how useless this entire kinn affair really was. In less than 24 hours, he and his supposed kinnmate are about to die. How fucking stupid.

But then fate, the cunt, worked her whiles, and one of the guards kicked the trussed up Wolf. Geralt grunted as he felt the sympathy strike in his ribs. Filavandrel saw it.

“Human,” he barked, and the poor bard jerked and gasped, already in angry tears over their scenario. “Tell me, boy, what is that beast?”

“She’s my kinn, please stop hurting her.”

The guard nearest Wolf stepped back, appraising. Hurting a kinn was a taboo, and the elves have respect for such beings. Kinn magic is as old as they are.

Filavandrel leaned back, and his voice is thoughtful. “She is, is she? And you, are you in search of her mirror?”

Jaskier nodded, swallowed his hurt to make his voice stronger. “Always. Please, don’t hurt her anymore, she doesn’t deserve it.”

Geralt growled and tossed his head. “Don’t hurt either of them, I’m the dangerous one, here. Leave the bard out of it. He’s just a tourist I met yesterday.” 

Filavandrel raised an eyebrow at him, clearly figuring their connection. “And you offer your neck for theirs, witcher?”

“If you need to kill someone, then I’m your choice. He’s no harm.”

They stood off for a moment, Geralt snarling and Filavandrel looking increasingly puzzled. Near the cave opening, the sylvan interrupted.

“Filavandrel, he could have killed me. He didn’t. I haven’t encountered another witcher who cared that I was intelligent.”

“He attacked you!” One of the guards complained.

“To be fair, I did hit first,” he amended, then looked to Filavandrel again. “He’s not a human. He’s not the one who hurt us.”

So of course when Filavandrel set them free, when he fucking replaced the smashed lute with his own personal instrument, when they pretty much dust them off and send the three of them on their way, Geralt  _ had _ to give him most of the coin he had. They’re starving, after all. And they didn't slit his throat. He can’t exactly complain.

Geralt had hoped getting roughed up and nearly executed would put a dampener on Jaskier’s enthusiasm, but the bard was absolutely thrilled with the entire thing.

“This is just brilliant,” he said, fingers petting the lute against his chest like it’s a living thing, “I have so much to work with. This is exactly what I wanted!”

“You’re an idiot, you almost died.”

“But we didn’t!” Jaskier was smiling and full of life. Geralt tried not to sneak looks at him as he fiddled through different chords, trying rhymes and rhythms. The bard sang and rambled as they walked, filling the silence on the road. 

Geralt could just leave the fool behind if he heeled Roach into a gallop. Fuck Wolf and her meddling, he could find a way to evade her. He could leave them both behind.

He didn’t. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt deserves all the bites, Roach. You do it, girl. Chomp him.
> 
> Sorry y’all, he only gets worse from here. At least for a little bit.


	4. Cloistered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt make mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. Geralt took a trip on the angst asshole train and I was also tackling a ridiculous Geraskier A/B/O fic simultaneously, because I am unable to do anything right, lol. Also, I altered the timeline a little bit- Geralt and Triss already know each other.

The sun was on the cusp of rising, the light in the east growing soft and warm, flushing out the purples of the night sky. Geralt was awake already, as he had been every day in the last few weeks, quietly attending to Lark.

The first time he’d opened the cage after the incident with Filivandrel, Lark had sprung out, anxious and loud. The kinn had most likely felt something was gravely wrong, and was blind to do anything about it. Geralt had to catch the bird in his panicked bursts of flight and soothe him. That had been a new experience: cradling and petting Lark. The kinn was apparently struck dumb by the action, which made him all the more amenable to stay in his cage.

That was weeks ago. Now when Geralt opened the cage he had to be readied for an attack. Sure enough, when the door opened, Geralt was assaulted by shrill shrieks and angry pecking. A distance away, Roach watched the drama and snorted her amusement. 

He allowed it for a moment: better to let the kinn scold him and burn off his pent up rage, but when Lark went for the corner of his eye, he snatched the kinn from the air.

“I know you hate it,” Geralt growled, holding the bird in his hand. Never too rough, but just enough to quell the little beast. Lark was surprisingly strong for a small thing. “Only a few more days. We will split soon for winter when we cross the Pontar.” Geralt dug seeds out of his pocket, spilled a handful in the cage and brushed out the eaten husks from the day before. “You’ll be free to fly come Temeria.”

Lark glared at him, pecked at his fingers. Geralt ignored the kinn and filled its watering dish. Bless the stasis charm on the cage- there was no way he could keep Lark hidden without it. 

Several strides behind them, Jaskier’s breath changed, signaling his imminent waking. Wolf was already out and about, most likely finding her breakfast. Witcher senses were wonderfully useful in avoiding the both of them, though, from the disappointed glares she aimed at Geralt, he was certain Wolf knew what he was hiding.

“Let’s go, Lark,” Geralt muttered. “Back in.” The kinn shrieked and flapped in indignation, and Geralt signed a small Axii. The kinn fell silent and stared at him, dazed. “Get in.” 

The kinn hopped into its cage without fuss, and Geralt closed and covered the cage just in time as Jaskier stumbled from his tangled bedding.

“Why are you always up so damn early?” He grouched. His hair was an absolute travesty. “Is it a witcher thing not to sleep in?”

Geralt realized that it was, at least for him. He only slept well when drugged, magicked or injured. Or after an especially fantastic fuck. “No need to sleep in,” he said, grabbing the cage and his pack and moving over to Roach’s tack and saddle. “Might as well get moving. Long trip, today.”

Jaskier sighed and peered about the half-packed camp. Noticing his kinn was gone, the bard put two fingers to his lips and whistled a high, clear note. A short distance away, a howl answered.

“Alright,” he said, kicking around in his possessions and fishing out a change of clothing. “She’s on her way back. Let me get dressed.”

The more time Geralt spent with Jaskier and Wolf, the more it irked him how close they were. The bard had the uncanny ability to understand the silent and broody creature. The smallest movement of her ears, the twitch of her lip, the single sweep of her tail spoke sentences to the man. He knew what every mood was on sight alone. Geralt worried that, with enough time, he would be just as easy to read. Already the bard knew when to tease and jest and at what point to back off and deflect based on, as far as Geralt could tell, the tick of the corner of his mouth alone.

Wolf and Jaskier were, undoubtedly, a team. It was also disconcerting to see how much Geralt and Wolf were alike. The kinn was stoic and standoffish to most people, but cautious and gentle to those who needed compassion. Twice already he’d seen the kinn comfort a scared child and a grieving widow with a tilted head and slow wagging tail. She didn’t show her teeth to those who were easily frightened, yet stood her ground to the aggressive. Geralt sometimes felt as if the damn kinn was able to read his mind, even once distracting a ghoul in a fight so that Geralt could get a cleaner cut. She was a true mirror of Geralt, which made the way she lounged so easily across Jaskier’s lap at night even more unsettling. Geralt would watch the bard sink his fingers into her fur, unafraid of the wild beast that she was, and his breath would catch realizing he longed to feel trust like that. 

And yet, he was not ready to let Lark out of his cage. 

Across the clearing, Wolf trotted out of the tree line, still licking blood off her lips. 

“Hello darling, good morning!” Jaskier greeted, wrestling with a boot. Wolf slid alongside him, letting him use her shoulder as a prop so he could pull it on without falling into the spent fire pit.

Geralt turned back to Roach and lifted her saddle into place. She turned her head to eye him as he tied his pack on, the cage swinging at her side. She nickered. Geralt could hear judgement in her tone.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, “I don’t need three beasts commenting on my life choices.”

Roach snorted and bent down to rip up another mouthful of grass.

* * *

It wasn’t that Geralt hadn’t had a traveling companion before. Witchers were strange, and people got curious. He’d been followed before, just not by someone this loud and unafraid. Jaskier was either completely clueless to the danger Geralt presented, or he didn’t care.

The bard wasn’t unafraid of everything, of course. The first time he saw a nekker he screamed and jumped halfway up a tree, yelling a slew of insults at the necrophage as Wolf held it off. Geralt made quick work of its pack; there were only four of them, and Jaskier sang praises as if he had slain a giant. 

Jaskier felt fear, just not at Geralt himself. A week in, when Geralt managed to get a harpy talon in the arm, Jaskier even felt fear  _ for _ him. The bard worriedly muttered and hopped around, asking for ways to help. It was a minor wound, but having a human fret over a scratch was novel.

Besides his tailing along on small, rather boring contracts, Geralt had to get used to traveling slower and camping in more hospitable places for Jaskier’s sake. He realized, in quite short order, that he would also need to cook his food. Raw rabbit apparently could kill a man, or so he learned when Jaskier gasped in horror and snatched the bloody haunch right out from between Geralt’s teeth. 

The witcher also found himself sitting inside an inn more often now with a human to escort him. Innkeepers were more friendly with a loud, distracting troubadour vouching for him, and people  _ liked _ Jaskier. His personable, open face and wide gestures put most people at ease. 

Then there was the singing.

Thank goodness Lark had introduced him to that in gentle birdsong, because the real thing would have been a heavy burden. The constant talking was entertaining, especially if Geralt could get a well-placed comment in and get the bard to scoff in offence or blurt out a laugh. The singing was something else.

Finished, crafted songs were bad enough, but the song-writing process was an absolute nightmare. Jaskier would run through eight different versions of the same refrain, changing pitches, switching lyrics, trying different notes. Geralt had to hear every, fucking, second of it.

“Enraptured by her shapely breast, and pulled to sea he… failed her test? I don’t know. Do they just drown men or do they also eat them?”

Geralt ignored the ongoing nonsense. He didn’t often answer, and sometimes found it amusing the sort of shit Jaskier thought were perfectly reasonable traits for a monster to have.

This time, however, his commentary was expected. “Geralt, serious question here,” Jaskier called up. The witcher highly doubted the question was actually serious. “What’s the function of a siren’s tits? Are they fish? Are they women? Why do they have them?”

“The same reason they have the faces of beautiful women,” he said, giving the bard a critical look, “to lure stupid men into the water. And eat them.”

“So they ARE man-eaters! Goodness they aren’t that different from real women at all, then.”

It was also a bit alarming to see Jaskier get Geralt’s humor: laughing at his dry commentary more often than getting offended, and then teasing him in return. The only people who did that managed to be other witchers. A regular human didn’t dare to do something so risky. Jaskier fell into it naturally, and Geralt found himself enjoying it. 

The bard was young and ignorant and loud, but he was also bizarre and curious and grandiose. He bitched at and challenged Geralt. Praised his work and critiqued his poor people skills. 

The song he wrote about their incident in Dol Blathanna is complete bullshit, but it cast Geralt in a hero’s light, something he was not used to. Jaskier’s praise he discounted as part of the strange tie of Kinn magic, but Geralt was not prepared for genuine smiles and nods from strangers.

“I know you don’t like the attention but goodness do we need the money!” Jaskier cackled, stacking coins on the table between them.

“The song is inaccurate,” Geralt grumbled, gulping from his free drink. An overly happy patron had bought it for him after Jaskier roused the crowd with his tale.

“Accuracy is not a strong selling point, I am afraid.” Jaskier sighed dramatically. “It’s promotion, Geralt. You need it. I see how people look at you and I hear all their awful commentary after you leave a room.” That made a frown pull at Geralt’s lips; not because people were speaking ill of him, but because of the absolute disgust in Jaskier’s voice. The bard reached down to stroke Wolf’s ears. 

“It’s unjust,” Jaskier spat, lip curling. “I am just doing my part to right a wrong.”

The caustic note to his voice was gone in a moment, replaced again with his charming, carefree lilt. “Still, I’ll be working a lot in Oxenfurt this winter and sing it often. It's a bit of an ear bug so it will probably travel.”

It was the first time someone actually tried to save his reputation on a wider scale. Sometimes a client would have a nice word to say to their fellow townsfolk, keep Geralt from being hit with a shovel, but that was it. Geralt didn’t know what to think of it all.

Autumn crept in, and Geralt realized that they had been traveling together for a month. They followed the Pontar, and Geralt knew it was time to split. Jaskier already planned to winter with a friend.

They parted at the crossing in Rinde. Geralt pointed Roach’s nose for Temeria, and Jaskier was to go west to Oxenfurt. He thought, originally, that it would be a relief. As soon as Jaskier was out of sight, he could release Lark and the kinn would no longer have to serve a prison sentence in his cage. Instead, it felt strange. It felt like a mistake.

“Winter well, Geralt. Keep warm and fed. I’ll be spreading your stories all over Oxenfurt and Novigrad. Hopefully you will have a busy season next year.”

Geralt nodded, casting a look at Wolf, who glared at him, unimpressed. “Sure,” he muttered.

The bard smiled. It was genuine, not the sort for shows or patrons. “I’ll see you soon.”

Geralt huffed, looked away. “You probably won’t,” he said.

Jaskier laughed and shook his head. “I’ll see you soon, Geralt,” he sang, and was the first to turn away, following the road east. “Take care of yourself, dear witcher.”

Geralt watched him walk away, watched until Roach huffed angrily under him, impatient. He heeled her onto the bridge, frowning at the heady mix of confusion and genuine affection: Jaskier actually liked him. 

Jaskier had never asked if they were kinnmates, he didn’t even seem to care. Jaskier liked Geralt in all of his rough states and foul moods, regardless. He laughed at his growling instead of cowering away. He teased him and tried to make him smile. In only a month, Jaskier was starting to notice his tells, and could see the difference between amusement and embarrassment with the slightest crease in his brow. It was uncanny.

They crossed into Temeria, and Geralt reached behind him for Lark’s cage, sweeping off the cover and unlatching the door. Lark burst from his confines, shrill and angry, and flew high and away. Geralt had expected that, and let the kinn take his space. He’d been cruel to him: it was reasonable he was angry.

The kinn’s voice was garbled and furious, cursing him out in his own language. The bird swooped and zipped, flew off into the woods, then back again, incensed. Geralt sighed. He could not do this again. He and Jaskier would run into each other again: kinn magic would pull them together again. He would have to find another solution. 

He needed to realize, too, that this was all the workings of the kinn. Without the kinn, Jaskier would never have met him, never have spoken to him. The kinn magic was what was making the bard like him, it was what was tempering his own mood to the bard.

It was all predestined, all twisted about by some ancient chaos. 

Geralt rubbed a palm over his face, grunting in frustration. This bond between them, this strange forced companionship: it was all fake.

He needed to remember that. 

* * *

  
  


Winter in Temeria wasn’t much better than winter anywhere else, except that Geralt had enough people that owed him a favor that he could spend most of his time out of the cold and in drink. He thought he would enjoy the quiet and the down time, but he grew aggravated as the days shortened, and wore out his welcome in several taverns.

Lark was not much better. Now free to do as he wished, the kinn avoided him. Lark only sang for others and often hid in the rafters. On the rare occasions he landed on Geralt’s head it was to peck him or pull a hair. Geralt still fed him, still made sure the kinn was warm and cared for, but their relationship was nowhere near what it had been.

More than once Geralt found himself drunk, growling at the kinn as it fluffed its feathers in offense. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me,” the witcher snarled, wasted and sullen. He’d holed up in the cellar of a man who he’d saved years prior that had been too poor to pay him. Geralt forgave the debt for a place to stay for a week and a few bottles of grain alcohol.

Lark glared at him, black eyes baleful, and chirped angrily.

“I didn't have any option,” he said into the bottle. “You kinn rushed this meeting. He’s barely an adult.” Geralt scowled off into the dark. “He doesn’t know anything about the world, and you try to pair him off with me?” The laugh is sour, loosened out of his throat by alcohol. “How cruel.”

Lark, for once, stayed silent.

* * *

The solstice came and went, and Geralt roamed. His favors ran dry a month before there would be any snowmelt, and Geralt made a decision.

Triss Merigold didn’t exactly fall into the category of someone who owed him a debt, but he needed to cash in on her good graces, regardless. Foltest had a slack leash on Merigold, and she could often be found in her own house outside of his court. Geralt didn’t bother warning her he was coming. He wasn't indulging in good manners this winter.

She’d nearly attacked him when she saw him. Maybe it was better to announce himself before sneaking into her house.

“Geralt?” She said, squinting at him in the dark. “What happened to you?”

Apparently a winter of drinking and sulking was not a good look. Triss didn’t let him do much of anything before she fed him, her gaze wary. Lark landed across the room, away from him, and Triss glanced at the kinn. He knew that if he gave her the chance, she’d be examining him immediately.

“Am I going to bring this up, or are you?” She asked after Geralt had eaten the majority of his meal. 

“It's a kinn,” Geralt said.

“Whose?” She looked at Lark with a mix of fascination and confusion.

“He’s mine.” Geralt chewed the last piece of bread, washed it down with the wine she’d poured him. 

“Are you kidding me?” Geralt expected some surprise, but Marigold looked as if he’d revealed a dragon to her. She gasped and approached Lark, eyes bright and excited.

“Hello,” she said, polite and sweet, “I’m Triss, Geralt’s friend. It’s nice to meet you.”

“He bites,” Geralt warned.

Just to spite him, Lark hopped up onto Triss’s finger and trilled. 

Geralt drank his wine as Marigold chatted to the kinn, examining him with careful fingers and asking every question she could think of.

“Geralt,” she said, her voice tinged with envy, “you don’t know how lucky you are. No mage has ever been gifted a kinn. Not ever.”

He snarled in response, but tried not to bark at her. Triss didn’t know what Geralt had been through: it wasn’t fair to yell at her.

She winced, translating his expression for herself. “So it’s not going well? No luck finding his mirror?”

Lark was the one to respond to that, shrieking angrily toward Geralt. Triss glanced between them, perplexed.

“I met his mirror. Managed to keep them from meeting each other.”

“What?” Triss looked scandalized, which was probably a reaction Gerat should have seen coming. 

“It's not the right time,” Geralt said, putting iron in his tone. “ I hid Lark for a month until I could shake the mirror. Now I need your help.”

Triss opened and closed her mouth in shock. “What could you possibly need me for?” She asked, dumbfounded. “Geralt, are you telling me you met your kinnmate and then just abandoned her?”

Geralt grunted and Triss looked to Lark, helpless.

“I need you to keep him,” said the witcher.

Triss set Lark down on the back of the chair, and then leaned heavy on the table, as if he’d winded her. “Geralt,” she said, “he is not a pet. This is a magical being that is tied to your soul.” She gestured to Lark desperately. “I can’t just keep him.”

Geralt shook his head. “He’ll be happier here with you than with me. He can’t…” he frowned, trying to find the right words, “he can’t come with me in the spring. He needs to be somewhere safe.”

She stared at him. “This is dangerous, Geralt,” she said. “People aren't supposed to be separated from their kinn for long periods of time. Not to mention great distances.”

That was a risk he was willing to take. It wouldn’t be the same as harming his kinn, he was only separating them. Triss could keep him healthy and safe. 

“I’ll be back come fall to take him with me in the winter: I’ll be fine.” Geralt nodded to Lark. The kinn only had eyes for Triss.“If he’s physically well, I will be too. Thats what I am asking of you.”

She sighed. “This is a terrible idea.”

She’d do it anyway. He knew her well enough by now.

* * *

  
  


He stayed with Triss for a few more days. Partially to spend time with a person he enjoyed, and partially to see if Lark got along well with her. It was obvious after a single day that the two were amiable. Triss’s inquisitive personality was well-suited to Lark, and Lark’s very presence seemed to fill Triss with excitement. Mages didn’t get to interact with the Kinn, and Triss had no problem talking to Lark as if he were his own person.

Geralt made her promise to not reveal what Lark was to anyone, and she agreed to keep the information to herself.

The witcher also tried to be useful as a way to thank Triss for her help. He assisted with her research into some alchemic formula, and showed her a brewing technique that helped preserve a particular healing agent longer. She was always open to Geralt’s suggestions, even though witcher training in potion-making was a completely different, more volatile way of alchemy. 

They got along well, which made the fact that Lark was avoiding him easier. He and the kinn needed time apart to cool their heads, and Triss was a good buffer.

Geralt expected Triss to proposition him at some point, as she had in the past, but apparently the knowledge that Geralt had met his kinnmate made that concept anathema to her. She kept her distance polite and friendly. It was a bit of a relief; Geralt didn’t like rejecting a woman several times in a row, and it would be poor taste to sleep with the mage and then leave her with the embodiment of his soul mate.

Triss didn’t ask about the kinnmate again, although he was sure she would ask Lark himself when he was gone. The kinn wasn’t going to be able to answer, so it mattered very little.

Once a week rolled around, Geralt was ready to go. The snow would melt soon enough, and he could get started on the cold slog back to Redania. Triss saw him off , telling him that she would track him down if anything seemed wrong with Lark, and he thanked her for her help. 

Geralt turned north again, Triss bidding him farewell. Lark did not come out to do the same.

* * *

The snow was slushy and turned the landscape to mud by the time he reached the Pontar. Snowdrops were risking their first bloom on the forest floor, but it will be a month until the less-brave flowers follow them. The world will be muddy and grey and wet as he made his way west, but the monsters will be thawing and waking from their sleep to keep him in coin on the way.

Spring hit surprisingly fast, washing the mud off of Geralt with cool, fresh rains and drying him with glorious bursts of sunlight. The trees awakened, the snakes re-emerged and with them, the birds began their songs.

Geralt thought that spring without Lark would be quieter, and it was, but not in the restful way. He thought he would sleep later without being awoken at the crack of dawn with a song in his ear, but he rose anyway. Most nights he needed the help of drink to put him to sleep, and even then the rest was fitful.

He followed the river, picking contracts along the way, traveling towards Novigrad. Geralt tried to make excuses for himself: he wanted to see if he could get a better price for the parts he was carrying, he wanted to see what news there was about the realms, he wanted his sword looked at by a professional. He knew, of course, that there was another voice singing westward, and his spring was too quiet.

The leaves burst two days outside of Oxenfurt and the forests and fields filled with life. More than once the witcher found himself looking for a small shape flitting amongst the trees that wasn't there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse before it gets better, folks.

**Author's Note:**

> More is coming. I’m a slow writer but this is some lighter fare so I’m not going to obsess over it and get stuck on a singular sentence for six months. At least I hope not. It would be cool if you left a comment. Cheers.


End file.
